The sky was just beginning to turn grey as Lear woke up. In the faint blue light filtering through the gaps in the curtains, he stared at the ceiling and counted to three, the revised plans from last night unfolding in his mind before he finally rose to wash up.
The P226 at his waist was tucked neatly beneath his jacket, its metallic chill seeping through the fabric like a silent warning. He traced the frame of the gun, his fingertip gliding over the trigger guard—the past few days of practice had lent him a measure of familiarity with the weapon, but he was still far from being able to call it "reliable."
The corridor was silent as he stepped out, save for the faint aroma drifting up from the breakfast stalls downstairs. Lear kept his footsteps light, pausing intentionally at the street corner to scan the silhouettes of the nearby buildings. The morning mist wrapped around the rooftops like a gauze veil, while he mentally counted the steps from here to his destination, calculating the fastest route.
The iron gate of the Police Shooting Range was slightly ajar, letting out a soft creak as it was pushed open. Lear slipped inside, first circling half the grounds to confirm the angles and blind spots of the surveillance cameras—he knew that certain eyes might be watching this place. Finding a spot in a shadowed corner, he finally drew his weapon and chambered a round.
The first shot missed the bullseye; the second grazed the edge. It wasn't until the fifth shot that he landed a steady hit within the ten-ring. He exhaled, fine beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Operations that required only the flick of a finger in the games of his past life proved grueling in reality. Yet he didn't dare stop, sliding in a new magazine to continue—he knew all too well that one day, the accuracy beneath his fingers would be the difference between life and death.
Footsteps suddenly sounded behind him, as light as a cat's tread. Lear didn't turn around immediately. Instead, using the motion of swapping his magazine, he glanced back through his peripheral vision.
The newcomer wore a S.T.A.R.S. uniform, her short hair slightly tousled by the morning breeze. Her collar was partially open, revealing a dark undershirt beneath. Most striking were her eyes—sharp as a hawk's, scanning him with scrutiny while harboring a faint, hidden trace of exhaustion. It was Jill Valentine.
Lear felt a stir in his chest. Having survived the Mansion Incident, she was likely being watched by countless eyes at this very moment. Irons wouldn't miss any opportunity to suppress S.T.A.R.S., and Umbrella's informants were everywhere. For her to come out and practice shooting at a time like this, she must have prepared endless excuses or even taken a long detour to evade surveillance.
"Morning," Lear spoke first, his tone as calm as a colleague happening upon another. "Practicing your aim, Officer Valentine?"
Jill nodded, her gaze sweeping over the bullet holes on his target, lingering a fraction longer than expected. "Yes. You're... Lear, from the Patrol Team?" Her memory had always been sharp; though they didn't interact often, she remembered this young officer who frequented the range—at a time when most were just coasting through their shifts, those willing to put in the hours were always different.
"That's me." Lear holsters his gun and stepped aside to yield the lane. "After you." Jill didn't stand on ceremony, stepping up to the adjacent lane. Her movements were a hundred times crisper than Lear's; with almost no visible preparation, she raised her hand and fired. The bullet nailed the exact center of the bullseye. The crack of the gunshot echoed through the empty space, carrying a certain ferocity born of being pushed into a corner.
Lear noticed her knuckles were white as she pulled the trigger, as if she were desperately suppressing something—perhaps rage, perhaps a sense of powerlessness.
Lear didn't fire again, simply standing to the side and watching. He saw Jill quietly press her left shoulder between shots, likely an old wound from the Mansion Incident. She never aimed for long, acting as if she had to respond to an ambush from behind at any second. This level of tension was far beyond what a normal officer should exhibit.
"Newbie?" Jill spoke suddenly. Her eyes remained fixed on the target, her voice devoid of emotion.
"Yeah, haven't been at it long," Lear answered honestly.
She swapped magazines and fired a few more rounds before turning her head to look at him. "Your stance is wrong. Wrists are too stiff." She raised her own hand to demonstrate. "When the recoil hits, you have to flow with the energy to bleed it off, not fight it head-on."
Her fingertips brushed the frame of the gun with a familiarity that suggested she and the weapon coexisted as one.
Lear blinked, surprised she would offer him pointers. He quickly adjusted his posture as instructed. He knew that given Jill's current situation, her willingness to say even a single word was a rarity—she had likely seen a glimmer of that same vigilance in him.
"Right, just like that." Jill nodded, her tone softening slightly. "Things aren't peaceful lately. It's good to practice more." She said this very softly, as if afraid the wind might overhear.
"Do you also feel... something is wrong, Officer Valentine?" Lear asked tentatively, keeping his voice as low as hers.
Jill's eyes darkened. She didn't answer directly, merely raising her gun to fire again. The bullet punched through the bullseye with a dull thud. "You can't go wrong being careful," she said, holstering her weapon with the weary tone of someone who had seen too much.
Neither spoke further. One practiced while the other observed as the morning mist slowly dissipated around their feet. It wasn't until Jill packed up to leave that she left him with one more thing: "The equipment room is doing an inventory check this afternoon. If you need 9mm Ammunition, go get some." Without waiting for Lear's response, she turned and strode out of the training range, her figure quickly vanishing into the mouth of the alley—she had likely timed this for the gap in her shadows' shift change and didn't dare linger.
Lear watched her retreating back and gripped his gun tighter. This woman, who always stood on the front lines in the original story, was currently fighting against a massive shadow all alone. And he was perhaps the only "kindred spirit" she had spoken to all day.
He raised his gun again. This time, his wrists were much more relaxed. Amidst the sound of bullets tearing through paper targets, he felt as if he could hear the whispers of a thousand buried truths.
By the time he returned to the Police Station, the Main Hall was already bustling. Lear returned his sidearm to the equipment room and, as an afterthought, took the box of 9mm Ammunition Jill had mentioned, tucking it into the inner pocket of his Police uniform.
As he walked past the front desk, he noticed a copper key wedged in a gap in the drawer. It looked ordinary, like it belonged to some locker. Feigning an adjustment of his paperwork, he slipped the key out and slid it into his pants pocket—an insignificant item like this, which no one cared about, might just come in handy one day. "Lear, what are you spacing out for?" Brown, the veteran Patrol Officer at the next desk, nudged his arm with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Just heard dispatch say there's another report from the West District. Someone heard strange noises from their neighbor's place in the middle of the night. They knocked for ages and got no answer, then this morning they saw blood seeping out from under the door."
Lear's pen hesitated. "The caller didn't give any specifics?"
"What is there to say?" Brown curled his lip and leaned back in his chair. "The Station is too lazy to send out formal teams for these kinds of cases now; they just tell us to check it out while we're on our rounds. A few days ago, an old lady in the South District said she saw a 'person walking crookedly' bite her grandson. When it was reported to the Station, they immediately brushed it off as 'delusional rambling.'"
He lowered his voice, leaning in closer. "I'm telling you, there's too much weird stuff going on lately. Last Wednesday I was patrolling near the back gate of the park and saw a bloody Police uniform tossed in a dumpster. Looking at the shoulder patches, it looked like it belonged to someone from S.T.A.R.S.. I wanted to report it, but the deputy chief stopped me—told me 'mind your own business.'"
Lear's heart sank, but he kept his expression neutral. "That's pretty sinister."
"The sinister part is yet to come." Brown clicked his tongue. "Haven't you noticed half the homeless people on the streets have vanished? And those late-night taverns and convenience stores—several have shut down. They claim it's for 'renovations,' but if you ask me, something happened."
Just as he spoke, the phone at the front desk rang. The clerk picked up, said a few words, and his face turned pale. He hung up and hurried toward the Chief's office.
Brown raised an eyebrow. "Well, here we go again. I reckon the sky over Raccoon City is about to get real dark."
Lear didn't respond, silently closing his patrol log. The sunlight outside the window was clearly warm, yet he felt a chill creeping up his spine—the prelude to disaster was ringing louder and clearer by the second.
(Translated by yourtl.app)